A Death in China - Carl Hiaasen [84]
Stratton glanced down at Gomez and smothered a moan. He passed a grimy hand across parched lips. All he could do was wait; it would be a very near thing. Wait in silence for deliverance, for the sight of the rope ladder peeling out of the chopper’s belly. Pray that the chopper came before the Chinese found him.
Stratton heard a noise and knew instantly that the helicopter would come too late, an eternity too late.
It was a squelch in the mud, and he whirled to face it. Another gray shape, only a few yards away. It had been watching him; he should have sensed it.
Stratton sprang forward, his hand working on the Thai blade at his belt. The shape had no gun or he would already be dead. But it could scream, and if it screamed, he would be discovered.
In three frantic bounds he reached the peasant. It was a young woman. She cried out and backed away, her eyes wild. The distant throb of the chopper blades grew louder. A minute or two, maybe more.
The woman turned to flee.
Let her go?
But she would scream. He knew she would scream. She ran in awkward steps, her arms around her belly. Stratton swiftly caught her, sobbing. Not this time, Bobby Ho. Not again.
With his left hand Stratton jerked back the girl’s head, and the fire’s glow shone the flesh of her neck. He killed her with a single savage thrust.
Still she screamed, a thin, piteous wail lost in the clatter of the descending helicopter and the confused shouts of the Chinese soldiers. She screamed for her life, and that of the child who lay heavy within her. Two senseless deaths.
Thomas Stratton did not care.
Chapter 18
STRATTON’S THROAT WAS DRY, his voice rough. He felt himself winding down like a cheap clock.
“Like it was yesterday,” he said. “I still dream about it. It still hurts. I murdered them. The woman, the baby …”
Kangmei worried a deep furrow with her stick.
“It is a very sad story, Thom-as,” she murmured at last.
“I’m sorry.”
“Men should not fight, Thom-as, they should live in peace and build beautiful things. Man is for good, not for killing.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
“Oh, but it is true. For every evil old man like my father, there are hundreds—many thousands—who are true and loving. Leave your unlocked bicycle at their door and it will be there tomorrow, and the day after. Those are the Chinese people, Thom-as. Not my father, not commissars who play with people’s minds.”
“Your Uncle David is a good man.”
“Yes, I could see that.”
“Until today he was the only person who had ever heard my story.”
“Thank you.”
“I wanted you to know. It was important …”
“I understand. I am not a witch, like one of the old women in Bright Star, but I have seen the sadness inside of you.”
“Kangmei, I …”
Stratton let the thought drift away. He watched the swift river, as muddy as his own thoughts. He felt light-headed and empty. And yet purged, as though retelling the horror would at last allow him to file it in some dusty mind bin, where it belonged.
On the far side of the river a young woman led a file of nursery-school children toward an old wooden footbridge. A flock of pigeons alighted in the trees around them. The palm leaves glinted with fleeting gold in the brief tropical dusk. Soon it would be dark, and a few hours after that he would be gone. Kangmei’s family had found a friend of a friend who was a conductor on the overnight train to Canton. Tomorrow the vestige of Captain Black would take over. Canton would be no problem. It was tonight that hurt. Stratton wanted the ghost of Man-ling banished as quickly as the Chinese railroads would allow. He wanted to get to Hong Kong, and from there to save David Wang. But he did not want to leave the strong and idealistic woman at his side.
He was assembling the question when Kangmei spoke. Again, she had anticipated him.
“Have you ever loved, Thom-as?”
“Yes, sure,” he said, but he could not separate the images of a clichéd decade: blondes and Titians, quiche and Perrier, trim-cut ski jackets, designer sheets. Carol, who had proved